


Another Hospital Scene

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:58:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, PWP, post S2 E18. Short chapters. <br/>I do not own these characters or profit from this work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Terrible Patient

He's a terrible patient.

Dembe warned her, but Liz didn't believe it until the first time she almost collided with a weeping nurse fleeing Red's room.

Liz watches the woman go with a frown, her baggy pink scrubs flopping as she runs towards the staff restrooms at the far end of the carpeted hall.

This is a very expensive, very exclusive private clinic, but she's not sure how much more time even Red's wealth will buy him if he keeps this up.

Liz grits her teeth and enters the room without knocking.

Red's glare softens as their eyes meet.

"Lizzie! Come on in!" he exclaims. He pushes the button to raise the head of the hospital bed a little higher.

"Where's Dembe?" she asks him, taking a few steps and then stopping to pick up a crumpled towel from the floor. There are various items scattered about the normally immaculate room.

"Madrid," responds Red. "He'll be back in less than 48 hours."

He doesn't seem apologetic at all.

Soap, washcloths, a metal bowl. Several overlarge white towels.

Liz stacks the items on the table by the door, beneath the wall-mounted dispenser filled with hand sanitizer.

She takes a seat at his bedside without an invitation.

"Refusing your bath again?" she comments.

Red purses his lips and sets aside the newspaper he was reading. Russian. She can barely pick out a few words. How many languages does he speak, anyway?

"Let's just say, I'm selective about the women I allow that close to me?" he responds.

Liz crooks a thumb at the door. "She seemed perfectly attractive to me."

Young and blond and rather sweet, the time Liz spoke to her at the floor desk.

Red makes a face at her.

"Honestly, Lizzie, I'm speaking of a degree of relationship, not about something so superficial as her appearance." His tone is dismissive.

"Oh, so you'd rather I gave you a bath, then?"

The sarcastic words slip out before she can think twice.

He blinks up at her in amazement, his brows rising. 

"Why yes, Lizzie, please feel free," he answers her, spreading his hands open at his sides. Giving her that cocky, challenging grin Red uses when he's calling one of her bluffs.

Liz pulls her gaze away from his face, the mocking quirk at the corner of his expressive mouth.

The extensive bandages on his abdomen are covered by his loose pajama top, buttoned to the neck. His legs, presumably clad in similar pajama bottoms, are hidden beneath layers of white cotton blankets, bleached like all the clinic's linens to a blinding white. At least he's no longer on life support, only one IV and some purple bruises remaining.

She'll probably never get another chance like this. And she does know how to bathe a man in bed, at least parts of one, after assisting Tom. She'll show him she's not just bluffing.

"Sure, Red, that sounds like fun." 

Liz rises and walks over to collect the supplies, then enters the small attached bathroom to run hot water in the sink.Wondering how far he'll allow her to go before he stops her.

She's rather use body wash, or liquid soap, but the white, oval bar of soap dropped by the nurse smells faintly of honey. A nice, neutral scent.

She emerges from the bathroom with the steaming bowl of water to find that Red has cleared the bed of newspapers by the simple expedient of tossing them on the floor on the far side of the room. He's also lowered the head of the bed flat, and shoved his pillow to the side. His covers are folded back to his pajama-clad knees, presumably as far as he could reach while propped up in bed.

Liz pauses, taking in the unique sight of Red lying flat on his back, defenseless. His eyes are closed, his hands lie still at his sides.

"Do you have clean clothing for after your bath?" she asks him as she crosses the room and sets the bowl, soap, and washcloths on the tray table at his side. Red opens his eyes and looks over at the closet.

"I think Dembe brought me some fresh things," he murmurs, closing his eyes once more. His broad chest rises and falls smoothly as he breathes through his nose, his nostrils flaring, his mouth still.

Reclining may have hurt him.

Liz collects the towels from the table and brings them over to the bed, and then opens the closet to reveal a neat stack of folded, ironed pajama tops and bottoms on a shelf, as well as several robes hanging neatly in a row. She chooses the top pair, a green and yellow plaid with dark undertones, and shuts the closet, placing them on the chair and then sliding it back away from the bed.

Because it's possible he's going to splash. She can't believe he hasn't made some sarcastic or salacious comment by now.

"I'm going to put a towel under you first," she says, unfolding the loose, soft length of the thick, plush towel. "Can you lift your head at all?"

Red brings his chin down, lifting up his head, and she slides the towel under his head and then down below his shoulders with a tug, leaning over him to be sure it's even on both sides.

His eyes are still closed, his face is so tranquil. 

Liz takes the washcloth, moistens it, then wrings it almost dry before beginning with his face. Red could probably wash his own face, although perhaps not reach his arms up far enough to clean the back of his head, but she wants to do this properly. As if washing every inch of him might somehow assure her that he's still alive, he's recovering, he's real.

She can't believe she almost left him in anger. A minute or two later, she wouldn't have been there for the shooting, and Dembe might have fallen victim to the assailant as well.

She cleans his ears carefully, making sure not to drip any water inside them. Then she soaps the soft fuzz of his silvery hair, massaging his head and neck gently before wiping the soap away.

Red is smiling now, having rewarded her with soft little gasps of pleasure as she worked through a few tight spots in his neck.

"I'll be right back with more water," she advises him. 

Liz stares at herself in the mirror as she refills the bowl with hot water. Her pupils are so dilated her eyes appear black. Her mouth is watering and her nerves are coiling tight with arousal. She's going to undress Red, explore the body she's imagined so often, touch him all over.

She's almost sure that he's not going to stop her.


	2. The Smell of Honey

Raymond Reddington breathes quietly and calmly through his nose, focusing his mind on lowering his heart rate, stilling his lungs.

The wound in his chest is healing slowly, but well. He's down to oral pain medication now, supplemented with whatever Dembe can smuggle in. It aches deep inside, but it's bearable if he avoids any sudden movements.

Lizzie's soft fingers on him, her dark head bent so intently to her task, the sweet smell of her customary perfume mixed with the honey scent of the soap.

He can't believe she offered. He can't believe he accepted.

There's something so delicious about lying naked and vulnerable, bared to a woman's gaze. Feeling her hands on his body.

He's going to close his eyes tight and imagine she's looking at him with desire, not just the tender consideration she's displayed in her visits to the clinic. As if it was somehow her fault that he was shot.

Red hears a soft click. Good. She just locked the door to his room.

He waits, wondering if she's losing her nerve.

Her fingers begin unbuttoning his pajama top. He opens his eyes for a moment.

Liz is using both hands, her blue eyes intent on lifting the fabric away from his chest, so careful not to brush against his bandages. As the last button opens, baring his waist above the low-slung pajama bottoms, Red keeps his eyes fixed on her face.

She's staring at the bandages, squinting with concern.

"Let me help with the sleeves," he advises her, bending one arm and then the other so that she can ease them off. Red hasn't been bathed for days, but no distaste at the smell of his unwashed body registers on her face. He holds that thought to him as he closes his eyes once again and rolls partway onto his side, away from his wound. 

She pulls the pajama top from beneath him, works the towel down lower under his body. He can tell she's staring at his scarred back by how slowly she moves.

Then the warmth of the wet washcloth replaces her gaze. It feels so good to be clean again.

Dembe has performed this service for him before, but he joked almost all the way through. Made Red laugh until he begged Dembe to stop because it hurt.

"No questions?" he asks her, breaking the silence as he rolls back to his back and she begins on his arms, raising each one to carefully soap his armpit before sliding the washcloth up his arm again and again. Giving each arm a gentle stretch as she washes him. She's never seen his scars, his tattoos. Most women ask for the stories behind them.

"Ressler's notes were pretty extensive," she responds absently, washing between each finger. At least his nails are short and clean; he can manage that himself.

"What notes?"

She starts on his other arm, moving more slowly to avoid tugging at the IV.

"In your case file. You do know I've spent days, entire days, reading up on you?"

Red winces as he tries to roll to his other side to allow her access to his back. He can't get very far on this side without the advent of a stabbing pain. At least she has been reading, not watching the video footage of the FBI agents searching him, or the cell where they held him captive. Even the least vain of men would be humiliated by that.

"If I raise the bed, you can lean forward," she informs him. She pushes the button without waiting for his assent. Red grits his teeth as the motion lifts him up and forward, feeling the fleshy curve of his stomach falling forward. He looks so much better, thinner, lying flat.

Liz touches the back of his neck, then scrubs down the center of his spine. Dries his damaged skin firmly with another towel. 

"Time for more water," she announces, leaving him sitting there. Waiting. She hasn't touched his chest yet. Red trembles a little at the thought of her touch on his sensitive nipples. He opens his eyes as he listens to the water running, gazing down at his own body. 

So ordinary, stripped of his expensive clothes, his weapons. White and silver hairs are scattered throughout the loose red-blond curls covering his chest and lower belly, thicker in the light, fair hair of his groin, not yet exposed. 

Still strong and healthy, his current injuries excepted, but marked by age, by bullets, by torture.

Does Liz see him as an old man? Suddenly he wonders whether he should stop her now, pleading modesty or weariness or even vanity.


	3. She Can't Resist

Red closes his eyes as she approaches with a fresh bowl of clean, hot water.

"I'm done with your back," she tells him, lowering the bed back down until he's lying flat once more. His nipples tighten as she begins washing his chest, starting at his collarbone and moving down. Avoiding the bandages, drying him carefully as she proceeds.

She can't resist. Instead of using the washcloth, Liz rubs the bar of soap between her wet hands, then slides them over his nipples before rubbing circles around them.

His mouth opens soundlessly, his eyes still closed, his head and shoulders pushing back against the bed as if he's trying not to move. As if all his attention is focused on the slick movement of her fingers.

Leaving his upper chest soapy, she moves down to his ribs and then his belly, still using her hands. 

He's responding to her with more than just the increasing pace of his breaths, the hard, heavy curve of him pressing up against the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms. Angled towards her as if yearning for her touch.

Liz dips the washcloth into the hot water, squeezes, then begins slowly washing the soap off his chest, moistening the cloth again and again to avoid dripping excess water onto his bandages. His body hair darkens when wet, lightens again as she dries him, so soft as she runs her nails through it. Trying to convince herself it's just be sure he's completely dry.

"Red? I need to put a towel under you - can you lift up a little?"

He bends his knees and plants his feet, lifting his hips just slightly for her to slide a dry towel under his lower body and thighs. 

She expected him to stop her long before now. But she's not going to back down.

Liz hooks her fingernails beneath the elastic waistband of his pajamas at his hips. 

His hands wrap around her wrists.

"Lizzie?" he says in a low voice that sounds somehow uncertain.

He's going to stop her. Liz doesn't know if she's relieved or furious.


	4. All Hers

"Can you freshen the water first?" he ask her. Temporizing. Delaying the moment. 

"Of course." She pulls free of his hold, rises to her feet, and carries the bowl to the bathroom. Red slides one hand under the waistband of his pajamas and gives himself a few brief, hard strokes as he listens to the water running.

Is he really going to do this? Is she?

Lizzie's soapy fingers on his nipples, the tender way she dried him off, just patting at them rather than rubbing too hard with the towel. As if she could feel what he was feeling.

Red looks up to see her standing at his bedside, still holding the bowl of water instead of setting it down.

"Do you want to do this yourself? Or shall I?" she asks him, giving him a very pointed look.

His last chance to back out of this. She's blushing, but still trying to stare him down. There's something about Liz when she tries to talk tough with him that just pierces him to the heart.

"No, please, you go ahead," he responds, removing his hand from his pajama bottoms after one final squeeze. 

She sets down the water then, drops a new washcloth into it. Still looking at him a little suspiciously.

"I'm all yours."

She raises her brows at that, then reaches for his waistband.

"Lift up again," she tells him, and without fanfare pulls his pajama bottoms down to his knees.

"OK, you can stretch out now."

Red lays his head back and closes his eyes as she folds the covers down and removes the pajama bottoms completely. His upper body is getting a little chilled, but that's nothing compared to the feeling of her eyes sweeping over him as he lies completely naked before her.

Laid out for her delectation. Or her judgment.

The warm wet washcloth covers him for a moment, then she moves on to rub soothingly at his waist and hips, swiping gently between his legs as she get him wet. Red spreads his legs, waiting impatiently for the soap. Will she use her fingers again? Or just the washcloth? 

She wrings out the washcloth once more, then lays it over him again, the hot moist heat an intense contrast to her fingers rubbing soap from his waistline to his upper thighs.

He's breathing more quickly now, trying not to make noise. Because after all this is a bath. Just a bath.

Red lifts his head and stares down the length of his prone body. He's covered by the washcloth and she's soaping the tops of his thighs now, wiping the soap away with a second washcloth.

Is that all?

Liz glances over, catches him looking. Her blue eyes are glistening, her lips parted. Her cheeks are glowing with color. Is she aroused, embarrassed, angry?

There's only one way to find out.

"Uh, Lizzie? I believe you missed a spot?"

In answer she lays one hand on him, the feel of her fingers through the washcloth sending a pulse of desire through him.

"Yes. Yes, that, exactly," he manages, laying his head back down and closing his eyes once more.

She pats him very gently. 

"All in good time," she responds. Then she continues washing his legs, moves eventually to his feet. 

Red holds his breath when she starts washing his right foot, but she grasps his toes firmly and scrubs hard with the washcloth, managing somehow not to tickle him. He's just been lying in bed - how dirty can his feet be?

It seems to take forever. Perhaps she's the one delaying now?

She removes the cooling washcloth and replaces it with another, hot and wet, moisture trickling down between his legs.

"Lift up one more time," she tells him, and he almost refuses, tells her he can manage this part for himself, and then she gives him another pat. An affectionate little pat.

"Your turn next," she says, and he can't refuse. Red lifts up, feels her wiping him like a child, gentle and thorough, and then it's done, and he shivers as he lowers himself back down and waits.

"You're cold," she says in a concerned tone, and he feels his covers being drawn up to mid-thigh, then a dry towel spread over his torso. It feels good to be warm again, and there's something so abandoned about lying with just his crotch exposed, only the wet heat of the washcloth between him and her eyes. Her touch.

Please let her use her fingers with the soap, he thinks to himself, and as if in answer he hears a soft rubbing sound and he smells the scent of honey once more.

Then she lifts off the washcloth.


	5. This Final Intimacy

Liz stares down at Red as she soaps her wet hands loudly. Giving him every chance to refuse her touch. To back away from this final intimacy.

This started as a bluff, but it's become so much more. The way he lay exposed beneath her gaze, just the faintest of shivers, a few movements of his mouth betraying the pleasure he was experiencing.

Whatever he wants or needs from her, she can't imagine a more effective way to demonstrate that he trusts her.

No kisses, no words of love could place him so fully in her power as allowing her to strip away every physical barrier, to reveal his needs, his desires, so plainly.

Liz lays one hand on him, feels him harden further, arching up into her touch.

She's giving something up, too. She can't pretend ignorance or disinterest any longer.

But he's making it more than clear that she chooses. For all that he's arrogant and exasperating and a terrible patient, there's not a hint of coercion.

She grasps him firmly with both her soap slick hands.

Within a few strokes she knows something new about Raymond Reddington.

He's noisy.

His mouth is open and he's making encouraging little sounds, almost gasps, and his fingers dig into the towel beneath his hips as if he's trying not to reach for her. His eyes are fixed on her, and when he mouths her name for the first time she feels the desire thrumming within her rising to the surface, her breaths matching his as he gets closer, her fingers alternately gentle and almost brutal.

She brings him so close, then makes him wait, until his thighs are clenched tight and shaking, until the stream of noises from his open mouth are a babble of entreaties mixed with her name.

"Red," she says, drawing his attention, then as his wide eyes fix on hers she looks down at him and says it again. So he knows she's watching him.

"Red. My Red."

He lets out a loud cry, and then amazingly he starts laughing, great gasps of laughter as he bucks his release into her hands.

"Oh Lizzie, so good, so good .." His face is absolutely radiant with joy, such delight that she can't help grinning back at him even as tears sting at her eyes.

She's never seen Red like this, completely undone and yet so perfectly himself.

And that was just her hands. 

Liz can't help but try to imagine for a moment what it would be like to be his lover in every possible way.

"Thank you for a most memorable bath," Red exclaims at last, dragging the towel from his chest down and drying himself off, before tossing it to his side. "May I have my clothes back, now?"

Silently Liz helps him remove the damp towels from beneath him and dress in his clean, dry pajamas. She can't think of anything to say.

He's in tremendous good humor, even when she ignores his instructions to leave everything for the nurses and instead piles all the dirty towels and washcloths in the shallow bathroom tub.

Then she washes her hands, trying to figure out what to do next.


	6. And After

Red looks over from his newspaper as Liz emerges at last from the bathroom.

She looks a little nervous as she unlocks the door to the hall.

"I guess I should get going ..." she begins.

He sets down the paper.

"Come here, Lizzie," he says, holding out one hand in emphasis. He's not going to let her leave looking like that.

She crosses the room reluctantly, takes his hand without sitting down.

"Yes, Red?"

Better to get it out in the open. The nurse will be in with his evening medications soon, and this is not a conversation to have while drugged or sleepy.

"So, Lizzie, I must ask. Was that just an interesting adventure, or an experience you'd be interested in repeating?"

She blinks down at him, and he tilts his head, smiling as if he doesn't care about her answer at all. 

The silence between them stretches, but he's not uncomfortable. Red can tell she's trying to frame some words in her mind.

If she's going to turn him down, however gently, he's in no hurry to hear those words.

She licks her lips. Gives him a little frown.

Red knows that expression all too well.

"You have a question, Lizzie?" he prompts her. She needs her mind set at ease before she leaves. He almost died without telling her the truth about his connection to Tom. He never wants to see that misery, that doubt, in her eyes again.

Her chin firms.

"I'd be interested in more than just that experience," she tells him. She steps a little closer to the bed, gives his hand in hers a squeeze. "So, what would you be ... interested in?"

She's trying for nonchalance, but the way she's clinging to his hand betrays her.

Red tries to contain his smile, but the relief is almost painful.

"I'm open to suggestions," he tells her. "A bit of a thrill seeker actually, so if there's something particularly unusual?"

As he expected, Liz smiles at that and shakes her head.

"No, just ..." she waves her other hand in the air as if expecting him to finish her sentence.

Come to think of it, he does have a habit of doing that, particularly when he's annoyed. But he's not annoyed now, he's touched and a bit awed.

"Whatever interests you, interests me," he tells her firmly, enjoying the flush of color that suffuses her face. Such a promising sign. He'd give a ridiculous sum of money to know exactly what thoughts just flashed through her inventive mind.

"Well, I'd like to start with a kiss?" she says, leaning down, then stopping just short of his face. 

Red was prepared for anything but that. 

Her lips cover his so softly, with a mere touch of her tongue, in such vivid contrast to her confident hands on his body.

"Lizzie?" he whispers. "What are you doing?"

He was almost killed, slaughtered like a hog, right in front of her eyes. She must know his life is all but worthless, right now. 

She strokes his face, then the curve of his head.

"I'm kissing the man I adore, who has to stay in bed in this clinic for another week," she whispers back. "What are you doing?"

This is madness, but in the face of her dreamy smile, the satisfying ache of his recent pleasure, and the deeply relaxing brush of his newly clean skin against the smooth fabric of his clean pajamas, Red chooses to allow himself to hope.

"Kissing you back," he responds, capturing her mouth for a deeper, more passionate kiss. "And wondering what I was thinking of, not to get shot sooner."


End file.
